Maybe the real ‘Brexit festival’ is the one we all live in

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News therefore, of the “Brexit Festival”, announced for the first time in 2018 by Theresa May, who did not vote for. It has a new name, to begin with, which is “Unboxed: Creativity in the UK”. The word Brexit has been deleted.

You can see why it had to go, given that the government had to ask real creatives to work on it *, none of whom voted for, and whose industries are already struggling to recover from the damage done. (* with the exception of The Who lead singer Roger Daltrey, who now enjoys doing television interviews how great Brexit is but actually bad, with all of its eminently predictable consequences that it didn’t foresee.)

Unboxed, which already has a true Millennium Dome vibe, will feature farms of neon cubes placed at the edge of cliffs, augmented reality hiking trails that show how big – but also small, the solar system is, and a repurposed La North Sea oil rig at Weston-super-Mare which we are told will “celebrate British weather” – as if Brexit weren’t enough to celebrate on its own.

Of course, there is this lingering doubt that the real Brexit festival is the one we’ve been living in all this time. It’s been said, time and time again, that Brexit is the national version of one of those parking lot-based ‘Winter Wonderland’ attractions, where you lined up in the mud for three hours to meet the dad ** ***, threatens. all the while, by Staffordshire bull terrier ‘reindeer’ wearing plastic antlers. But there’s nothing you can do about it now, so it’s better to think of it less as your real country, your real life, which has turned into real shit, and more as some kind of immersive theatrical experience. .

Where the folks who brought you up, “there will be no downside to Brexit, only a huge plus” now go to the weird TV channel they started for themselves to say that, d alright, alright, no, there won’t be a turkey this Christmas, or any toy, but in fact – in fact, in fact, in fact – Christmas is not about the little things, like the food or gifts, it’s about, uh, it’s about uh, it’s about. Look, these are the sunny highlands so stop whining and try to enjoy it.

All of this, surely, is irrelevant anyway, now that we know that the real Brexit festival has already taken place. It happened every weekend, in fact, throughout the hot off summer 2016, on the 14th floor of some nondescript office building near Vauxhall, which was the Vote Leave HQ.

In his last perfectly normal blog post, Dominic Cummings described the scene at Vote Leave HQ during this heady time as being entirely symptomatic of “what winning political campaigns look like.”

“There are hot women, beer, pizza and music in the office,” he bangs, “Friday and Saturday nights because the place is bursting with energy.”

I mean, listen, maybe he’s right. Personally, I only went to Vote Leave HQ six times at the time. And it must be bad luck that I missed all the debauchery bacchanalia, only attending a speech by Chris Grayling, and that morning of June 24, 2016, where Boris Johnson and Michael Gove were apparently partying but wearing the kind of ashen gaze that is generally described as having “remained expressionless when the jury returned their verdict”.

Maybe it all went off the rails when the cameras were turned off and the snappers came home, and they all took off their red t-shirts and went absolutely crazy in the full suits that they all wore under them. And it’s probably just a coincidence that it looks a bit like Mark Zuckerberg’s dormitory in 2004, where, not having quite succeeded in getting real girls talking, instead created a website through which you could at least assess their appearance.

Maybe the “misfits and weirdos” were really having the best time of their lives in this. Big Dougie Carswell on the tables, Hannan on the microphone spitting out lyrics – in strict iambic pentameter of course. Analyze the data, distribute the press releases, make sure everything is ready for the big speech on Monday morning by – * check the notes * – Lord David Owen. There they were all in one place – Cummings, Caino and the rest – a generation lost in space.

As for “hot women,” well, those of us who have spent those days outside can, if you really scratch your head, remember somewhere between one or most likely two women who actually worked there. . Their “hotness” is not really to be commented on, as it is a good way through the 21st century and everyone involved is over 17 years old.

I guess looking back I just assumed they were there because they were doing their job, but in some ways it was welcome that the record be corrected, by their former boss, who for some reason, would like it to be known that in fact they were just hanging around the place, glorified by the girls on the podium in dweeb Valhalla, full of smoke. There to make the place nice, a side dish to go with the beer and the pizza and the music and everything the big boys did.

This was only the start of the journey, of course. Shortly thereafter, the home of the Brexit fraternity moved to 10 Downing Street, and even sooner after that, one of Cummings’ ‘misfits and nuts’ would leave after the discovery of various blatantly racist blog posts that he said. they had written, then the whole thing would come crashing down. Cummings and Caino on their proverbial butts, having overseen – and you never really guessed it – the creation of a toxic, macho work culture.

All festivals, unfortunately, have to end. At this point, it’s still someone else’s job to sweep and clean up the trash.


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